


DA038: Antivan Nights

by Rhion



Series: Seasonal Prompts [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Community: People of Thedas, M/M, Seasonal Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Antivan nights - they get hotter than hot, in a lot of good ways. If Zevran found a djinniri in a lamp, the Warden was a prince and fairytales were true, magic carpet rides would abound.</p><p>Written for People of Thedas Valentine's Prompt 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	DA038: Antivan Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Briala and the Sugar and Spice Valentine’s Day Swap. The idea comes from Croaky/Teapirate’s artwork and her Warden, used with permission. If Zevran were Aladdin and Laran (m!Cousland) were Princess Jasmine, what would one get? I’m considering a second half to this, critiques are welcome, reviews earn squees, and may one and all have a good V-Day.  
> Beta’d by Janni because she loves me in spite of my fucked up grammar

A brown hand selected a salt sprinkled, halved fig from the plate, the deep pink interior glistening with sweetness. The scent of it carried its sweetness to an appreciative nose before neat teeth, only marred by one of the canines being slightly crooked, sank into the meat. A thoughtful hum escaped the mouth now filled with fig. "I have always felt that the finer things in life were to be enjoyed. But, what would a whorehouse, slave-born elf know of such matters? Why plenty! Where else would one learn the art of seduction with such professional joy? In some back alley? A harem perhaps? No, no. There is no zest for life in those places... But I have been in many of each."

The elegant room was swept. Usually those with wealth, particularly those new to it or with something to prove, would tend towards ostentation, but while everything here was finely made, it clashed no more or less than the usual Antivan fare. Luxurious colours with deep pigment contrasted in silks ranging from gossamer to the point of being wispy and barely there to thick pile so heavy that it could likely keep the edge of a dagger from slicing through it. That was likely the rugs’ intent, at least originally. Hues the colour of mad rainbows were stitched with broad borders in silver thread or perhaps it was white gold or even the mad expense of platinum. Fragrant smoke and teas hung in the air making it shimmer, a slight haze cast with blues in all the ranges of that colour, pinks, reds, oranges, purples, yellows, greens, and even creamy whites ranging from a gold tinted peach to milk with a drop of coffee. The whole effect should have been painful to the eye, but was not. Someone had made the disparate parts into a cohesive whole, a piece of artwork. 

Beaten gold eyes – or were they some rare shade of amber? – caught the dazed stare, amused at his listener’s awe. “Stories always seem to start with ‘once upon a time’ or some other trite piece of drivel. But, I have so many to tell, there is never enough time for them all, but rather than discuss the vaunted station I have found, perhaps something else might amuse you? Hmn...ah. Yes, that should do nicely... I do so love to elicit a blush. And there will likely be much of that for your sheltered mind.”

....

Zevran hadn’t felt all that betrayed, not really. Laran was _shemlen_ and had reeked of fine breeding. He wasn’t even certain why he had been so surprised that the person those eager and curious blue eyes belonged to was a prince. For a brief moment he had been raised up in the other’s presence, felt protective and protected. Such a strange feeling to a man like himself. And so, he had set his sights on coal black hair, frighteningly pale skin – like moonlight glinting from a burbling fountain – and eyes so blue they burned. 

Certainly Zevran was no stranger to thinking with his manhood, it had gotten him in more trouble than it got him out of. Normally he found some way out of trouble regardless, and this last time was no different. A carpet, a lamp, and his only real friend Isabela – even if she _was_ a monkey – had him playing a different sort of part. It wasn’t the vulnerable and pretty young whore, work he tried not to demean himself with all that often, at least, not since he had gotten too muscular to appeal to the sort of men who wanted a soft skinned and slim limbed elf. Or as a bouncer even, the strong arm for Ignacio’s brothel when Fezic and Horatio were busy. Nor was it the part of street thief and cutpurse. For once, the part was of a man with standing. One with power. One with wealth.

Biting into a quince, grunting, “One with a full belly.”

“What was that?” Prince Fergus leaned closer, curiosity on his face.

Smiling winningly, “Oh...ah, nothing, just a thought, that is all. Nothing of any concern.” After a quick sip of extremely strong mint tea, “So, tell me my friend, where _is_ your erstwhile brother? Is he not feeling well to miss out on this fine repast?”

The prince sighed, “You will have to excuse him, he isn’t one for social niceties. Not much of a people person.”

“Oh, that is a shame, truly,” the disappointed sigh wasn’t feigned, not at all. 

After that, the meal didn’t taste quite as good as he thought it would. 

....

Sneaking was something he was good at, he had to be. Zevran had to eat after all, and once the last of his growth spurts had hit, his appetite had permanently settled into a constant dull roar. And since he couldn’t work at Ignacio’s brothel anymore since that last incident, well, he had to do for himself and that meant stealing, which he was good at as well, thankfully, as he tried to avoid sinking into his old profession as much as possible. On the carpet he floated, its movement silent, barely a whisper on the wind. Not that it mattered much, the Maker-awful screeching of the peacocks in the garden below would see to that. Unless one knew what to listen for and had elven ears, no sound would betray his presence. 

Those very same elven ears were kept covered by his turban out of propriety. No elf who had managed to become or had been born into noble status would leave the pointed ends bared except in private. This new status was still a recent thing, barely three generations had passed since such a thing had been allowed. Elves didn’t want to draw attention to those differences, mostly out of a mix of shame and the fear of being treated as less than their human counterparts. Only the poor or slaves left the flexible cartilage bare to be seen by one and by all. Frankly, he found it rather uncomfortable. His hearing was muffled, his ears itched and sweated – altogether unpleasant – and the wrapping made his head too hot. But he was a noble, a gentleman, refined, or at least he was supposed to be. Plus he had the lamp on his head, hidden under the complex wrapping.

Finding the balcony that led to Prince Laran’s private quarters, Zevran touched the carpet indicating that it should stop. The pale _shemlen_ was leaning on crossed forearms staring morosely up at the sky with a large mabari hound beside him, massive paws and head also on the railing, almost like a person. Carefully pricking his ears, he listened in. If he was to gain his goal, he had best know more about the pretty man who knew nothing of the world outside the protective walls of the sultan’s palace. At least, he needed to know more than he had found out during the prince’s brief ten day stay with him on the streets, which was all suspect information anyway.

“I should’ve known, Phobs,” absolute dejection radiating out of every pore, Laran made a face, then slapped the marble. “Is it so...stupid to want friends? Not to be seen as...just some puppet? Maker! How could I have gotten taken in so quickly? I know better than that!”

There was a canine whine, triangular ears pricking this way and that, and the hound scooted closer to his master.

The prince’s look went soft, just visible from Zevran’s hiding spot, and the _shemlen_ hugged the massive shoulders, “Well, I have you, you’re right. Who needs stupid lackeys who want to use me?”

Rocking back to think, chin in hand, Zevran frowned deeply. What does one say to someone when one wants to convince them that one isn’t some ‘lackey’ out to use them, particularly because his intentions weren’t all that pure and could be considered rather a lot like that of a lackey. It would have to be something convincing, something suitably aristocratic and self assured. 

There came a buzzing by his ear, and his hand instantly snapped out to try and swat the pest away. “Truly! ‘Tis a wonder! Must I do _everything_ for you?”

“ _Que haces_...?” a massive wasp whizzed by again, hovering unnaturally right near the tip of his nose.

“Must it be spelled out, you simpleton? I thought you were more intelligent than this. Be yourself!” The head of the insect was that of Morrigan, foul-tempered as any djinniri could be. Zevran halfheartedly wished it had been just a djinni because supposedly it was possible to reason with the males of the race. “It would spare you the trouble of taxing your mind as you war with your manhood when he is far too stupid to comprehend the difference between effort-filled fancy and fact. He is a prince, a rather loutish one at that, excitable and unable to appreciate the nuance of a thoughtful contrivance. Just be yourself and stroke his incredible ego, and you will have him eating from your palm.”

Since he didn’t particularly want to believe her, he scoffed, “Oh, right, like that got me anywhere but behind bars with a death sentence last time, hmn? Any other bright ideas, fairest djnniri?”

“Well if you must insist upon this foolishness, I have already given my advice!” she humphed at him. “Until you’re sensible, I’ll just be in my lamp!”

There was waspish snapping and grumbling as she zipped under his turban, but he ignored it in favour of watching the sad line of Laran’s back as he stalked back into the airy quarters with the great mabari at his side. With a touch, he urged the carpet to the balcony, the distance covered in seconds rather than the many long minutes it would have required if he had been forced to climb. Almost silently Zevran slid from the magic companion to the railing, balancing as he sought to peer through the many layers of biting night insect thwarting sheer curtains. Even he knew mabari weren’t to be startled, and so he waited until he was certain they had gone farther in. He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan would be, likely to pretend he was lost and made a wrong turn somewhere. That would work...he hoped. 

Gently easing through the curtains, Zevran went still at the low growling. Backing up as the massive shape stalked through, his eyes locked on the small brown ones in the huge head. He hadn’t ever really noticed just how large a mabari’s mouth was, or their teeth, or much of anything, and he bumped to a halt back out on the balcony once more, brought up short by the rail. Tensing, his muscles readied themselves for a backflip, noting how the hound was already crouching to spring. If he caught the balustrade as he swung back, the hound would go flying and land far below. Such a thing would likely kill the hound, but Zevran would survive...until the prince got his hands on him of course. 

“Phobos. Hold,” Laran’s voice cut through the air, firm and in command, a hand on the beast’s head all that was between Zevran and having to make a run for it. “Shaikh Arainai, do you commonly go slinking about people’s balconies? Is it something terribly fashionable in your country? Or is it some personal trait?”

Finding a chuckle, Zevran ofered, “Ah, you would not believe me if I said I was lost, then?” He did not take his eyes off the mabari. “Your brother said that you were not feeling well and it made me most concerned. After the trouble in the market and such, I was worried....”

“And so you sought me out,” the prince approached, head cocked to one side as a sultry smile transforming his features, the expression sending a hot bolt through him. Strong, broad fingers ran down the center of the toned and waxed chest, “For the company of a prince is valuable to a noble like yourself, isn’t it?”

Relief and arousal warred - it appeared there would be no fleeing from overgrown dogs tonight! - and Zevran nodded sagely, “Why of course, Your Highness. Company like yours is quite valuable...”

Laran’s smiled warmed even more, “Mmmhmm, the son of a sultan...educated, eloquent, well groomed, yet still flexible and honed in the arts of combat. Ah yes, let’s not forget I’m also filthy rich, aren’t I?” Slowly the royal _shemlen_ approached, the tips of his fingers still moving up and down the taut line that Zevran had been thinking about in the weeks since their brief time together until the tall frame was leaning down, close enough to kiss, not that Zevran would presume. Not this time, even if it was extremely difficult, even going so far as to lean away slightly, caught in those burning blue eyes, “A fine and truly beneficial friend to have for a fellow lonely nobleman, yes?”

Clearing his throat with great difficulty, “Oh! Why yes! No doubt about that!” Nervous laughter, too loud to his ears, but there was something about Laran that made it nearly impossible to think clearly when in such close proximity, “A fellow nobleman like my....”

“Exactly!” the crash of a massive right hook into his jaw sent Zevran reeling, hanging on to the balcony’s support. He had taken worse strikes from customers and in brawls, so knew how to take a hit, but he hadn’t been expecting one at all. He’d been too distracted by whatever scented oil Laran used and the nearly lurid glint lighting that face. “You and every other self-absorbed, swaggering peacock that comes waltzing into court! ‘Ohh! Let’s get the young prince to favour us and ensure a rich position and free favours and family connections and political power! He’s a pretty face and unmarried. Ohh, it’ll be easy!’” There was hurt, Zevran thought, beneath the loud anger, but that could just be his scattered wits. Normally he wasn’t so inattentive. Blast the handsome _shemlen_ , his own manhood, and whatever foolishness had made him set his sights on the prince. “What?! Do I look like a complete idiot?”

Hiding his wince even as he rubbed his jaw – which would have a nice bruise soon and he had best see if there was any makeup and salve in the bag of many tricks Morrigan had conjured up – he straightened and nodded slowly. “I would say that they were fools to think that of you, Your Highness.” Laran’s face was still twisted with anger, but Zevran bowed deeply, touching fingers to the center of his brow respectfully. “I can see I have wronged you. My deepest apologies. It was not my intent at all.” 

The prince had backed up, chin striking up high in the air with a jerk, arms crossing so they bulged, showing off the impressive expanse of muscle. “Hmph!”

“Well then, I take my leave, Your Highness,” nimbly leaping backwards off the balcony, vaulting the rail, trusting the carpet to be waiting for him.

There was a cry, “Wait...what?!” Laran coming out over, an arm outstretched to catch him, “You don’t....”

Surprised at the sound, Zevran told the carpet to rise slowly so he was nose to nose with the human. “Is something amiss? Was there some protocol I did not observe?”

“No, no,” a slightly gape-mouthed stare. “No, not at all. How...” Curiosity won out over the tense line of horror, “How...how are you doing that?” 

The carpet rose higher, and they floated over the balcony. Zevran shrugged, “Magic carpet. Useful, no?”

It was odd to see such confusion and awe on someone’s face over something that had quickly become an everyday sort of thing to him. The carpet, like Isabela, was his friend. If terribly deep in his cups, he might be pressed to call Morrigan, even in all her foul-tempered and acerbic djinniri glory, one as well. After all, he fully intended on freeing her from the curse that bound her to the lamp. He knew all about being a slave and longing for freedom. Even if Ignacio had functionally granted his freedom, it wasn’t official, and at any time he could be pulled back to life at the brothel, or worse. At least meals had been steady there. Until finding the lamp, he had been looking at a very bad and very short life. And so he couldn’t help but want to give the djinniri something he understood the value of all too well. 

Hopping off the carpet, it rose once more, to hip height, and rippled a greeting at Laran.

“Oh...it’s...intelligent?” surprised, the brows climbed high on the patrician forehead.

Patting the carpet companionably, “About as much as your massive hound. More than most people at the very least.”

Laran laughed and reached out to touch the intricately patterned sentient conveyance. “Greetings.” Gaze serious once more, “If you’re a shaikh, why roam the streets as nothing more than a thief?”

Brought up short, Zevran scrambled for a fitting lie, “Oh, ah...I was curious. My...father sent me away for education on the wide world. What better way to learn of a people than to see how their poor live and are treated?”

“Oh...” dark ebony brows scrunched, puzzling it over. “Truthfully I didn’t know it was so....”

“Ah, do not think of such matters. A dark look like that does not suit you, Your Highness,” inclining his head. “For is it not true that the Maker in His infinite wisdom graces some with wit and wealth while others live in dirt until they are worthy? Perhaps if He is kind, their next life might be more pleasant once they learned what was necessary during this turn of the wheel.”

The carpet came to his rescue whirling in its usual friendly manner, like an overgrown feline, around his legs, then around Laran, halting the serious turn of the conversation. 

Another laugh issued from the pale, long throat, “You’re rather friendly, aren’t you?”

A somersault and curling roll of its form was its silent agreement.

“You...would not happen to care to go for a ride?” Zevran hoped the hesitation wouldn’t be all that obvious as he asked. “There is plenty of room for two.”

“Is it safe?” a glance filled with longing moved from the carpet and to the world beyond the massive walls of the palace.

Making himself comfortable on the carpet, he held out a hand, smiling, “You trusted me before, my Prince. You may do so once again. We will not let you fall.”

....

Zevran would not describe the _shemlen_ as afraid of the heights they were flying at, but uncertain? Yes, yes he would call that nervousness or uncertainty. To the elf, danger of this sort was just normal. While leaping from roof to roof to balcony to streets, having to catch footing and find toe or finger holds quickly, there was no room for anything other than exhilaration. Or a very bad drop with an even worse and abrupt landing. 

Not that Zevran would complain even a very tiny amount about Laran’s uncertainty. Mostly because it resulted in the _shemlen_ ’s leaning close, in response to which it was quite natural to wrap an arm around the muscular waist...for security purposes of course. Large blue eyes opened wide with a surprised smile lighting up the fine features and the blush of excitement across the cheeks as the prince took in the sights. Meanwhile, Zevran made a more than cursory inspection of each flicker of emotion. Everything gained a surprised and pleased sound until finally Laran was leaning forward eagerly with the carpet’s maneuvers. 

During one of Laran’s many glances at him to point to some new sight that had caught his attention, the _shemlen_ finally noticed his staring, which Zevran had been hiding for the most part. “What is it?”

Zevran cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away to see what the prince had been so pleased with, “Oh...that is....”

“No, seriously, what is it?” a calloused palm pressed to the top of his hand. “Did I grow a second head without realizing it?”

His head whipped around at that, “ _No_. No, I do not see another head upon those shoulders, my Prince.”

Attraction was something Zevran understood, sex too. But “love” was a foreign word, something other than what was sold with a bright smile and bedroom eyes. So why was it that he couldn’t think straight for wanting to run a hand through short raven’s wing hair? Why would he do anything to gain a smile and no further reward? When he saw Laran in the market, he had thought him a fool or a distraction for some other thief’s work. Upon finding that his fellow was truly innocent of life’s rigours on the street, Zevran had taken it on himself to educate him. To protect him. If that meant they both had someone to watch their backs, since both of them impressive enough to present too much trouble to be bothered with, but not enough to be a threat, then that would have been splendid. Even better was that the youth had been of a similar bent as himself, the two of them enjoying the company of the other rather pleasurably, but that had been an unexpected bonus. Altogether it would have been an equitable and agreeable partnership. 

“Well that’s a relief.” Intently, “Tell me what it is then...what....”

Zevran took initiative, leaning close, brushing his lips over the full ones so near to hand. Huskily, “Think me presumptuous, pompous or a swaggering peacock for saying this, but you are a very beautiful man, _guapo._ ”

He had half-expected an angry retort, but instead got one of those looks. Zevran knew what it was, one of those that were true bedroom eyes, the ones that darkened with want, unfeigned. The wind was whipping the prince’s hair, tugging at their clothes, but the carpet slowed gently as it continued onwards while Laran moved back in, pausing at the last moment, before a hungry mouth was on his. Kissing was done when sex was not bought and sold, at least to Zevran’s way of thinking. A kiss was a premium commodity, one he didn’t hand out lightly, no matter how much he enjoyed sex and all its acts, kissing included. A kiss was for someone desired, not a customer, at least not on the mouth. Parting his lips, deepening the kiss, he looped both arms around the _shemlen_ , a groan working its way up and out. Mindful of their position and just how large the carpet was, Zevran guided Laran with hungry urging that met each touch by echoing desire. 

The slickness of tongue against his was smooth and made him aware of every beat of his heart, the pierced nipples under his hand as he pushed open the gaping, immodest vest that screamed “sex,” showing off every inch of toned flesh begging to be touched, distracting everyone who looked. Not even Zevran had dressed that way, outside of the brothel’s waiting room at least. Even then, more would be left to the imagination, forcing himself to be selected just so that the customer could find out just what he was hiding. Strong hands worked at his own far more modest clothing, fingers clutching at the heavy cream coloured silk, their teeth clicking together for a moment until the need for air beyond what their noses could gain them as their faces were mashed together so tightly forced them to break apart for a brief second. Long standing habit came to Zevran’s rescue. The jar of simple unguent he carried with him at all times, even as a humble thief, was caught from his sash as he went to his knees. Laran followed quickly, mouth on his neck, and only Zevran’s fast reflexes saved the prince’s vest from being snatched away by the wind as well as his own turban with its precious contents. Gripping the items tightly in his fist, he hurriedly tucked them behind the fold of his knee, pinched in place by thigh and calf. 

Beneath them the carpet went tight, its lines becoming as hard and unyielding as stone with not a single ripple to cause problems while they moved. Moisture flickered over a lobe, tugging at the gold hoops. A hand slid into his pantaloons, taking in the ridges of his cock, making him growl with encouragement as he made his own explorations, rediscovering the dark thatch and firm line of buttocks. A groan came as he ran fingers along Laran’s crack, more to touch and feel rather than in request, but the panting against his neck let Zevran know the prince’s desires. 

The prince loosed a breathless chuckle at the little jar of salve as he noticed it, finally. “Was that your plan?”

“Habit, my Prince, nothing more,” honesty threading around the arousal. 

Laran moaned before brushing his mouth over the still sore side of his jaw. “Good. I’d hate to have to hit you again. It’s so tiresome to be angry at you.”

“Ah, there is no need, my friend,” another kiss claimed. “Displeasing you is not what I desire.” Chuckling, “Pleasing you? That is another matter entirely, my Prince.”

The _shemlen’s_ hand massaged his length, made sticky with unguent, “And you? What of your pleasure, Zevran?”

Nibbling over a pale pink nipple, one arm supporting Laran, the other hand busy with testing and stroking the flexing walls of the handsome youth’s hole, “That is easy enough to answer. You are, my Prince.”

“Laran...just Laran,” the words moaned gutturally as Zevran found the concentrated area of nerves. 

They took care amid their urgency, the blunt tip of his crown enveloped in gradually loosening muscles. Laran fought him, seeking to press down too fast, seeking to use the leverage of changed position to gain swift joining. It took concentration not to rush; Laran was tight, very tight, and as good as it felt, Zevran could tell that the prince wasn’t accustomed to accommodating anything so ambitious as himself. The air was cold this high up, but Laran’s body was hot, tight and held him securely, even as Zevran wrapped an arm around the bare torso, stroking the muscles he hadn’t been able to get the taste of out of his mind, not after the first taste of them in his dirty flop on the outskirts of the city. A hand reached back, cupping his head, tangling in his hair, tugging. Laran’s moans were harsh and low, while Zevran fought for control, brushing his mouth over a broad shoulder, biting it lightly, tasting clean flesh, his nose and mouth filled with the smell that had driven him mad since that first night. 

Rushing, pumping blood flowed in his veins like molten metal, laced with sticky opium smoke, his senses fuzzing and uncertain of the world outside the dream scape as he clung, swaying with Laran. As loud as the whistling wind was, he could only hear the _shemlen’s_ escalating cries, the dull wet sound of their bodies working in tandem, the pounding of his heartbeat, and when he pressed an ear to the sweat beaded back, Laran’s heart, while his body struggled towards impending release. Any other time Zevran would have hidden just how far along in his pleasure he was, masking it as he did with customers who didn’t want their whore to get more out of it than they did, but he didn’t fight, just let it come, let himself fully enjoy shooting his seed into the tight grip holding him. In his embrace, Laran gasped, hips twisting down to press harder, body shuddering, and Zevran reached between Laran’s thighs, beneath the heavy velvet sac, stroking and massaging firmly in time with their short thrusts. A jerky ripple and Laran clutched at his arms, head tossing as in frantic desperation his head craned to one side, fighting to gain another kiss. With a moan, back stretching as he curled, Zevran strained, seeking to at least touch their mouths together briefly. 

There was a rolling buck, Laran arching, the motion caused Zevran’s second release to strike him in surprise, making him hide his face in a shoulder blade, his own voice rising with Laran’s to join the lustful song. Breathing as hard as though in the last legs of a long distance race, he wrapped fingers around Laran’s member, thumb rolling and stroking the seeping slit tip, each reckless plunge together pounding their bodies into one whole, the silken skin of the _shemlen’s_ cock caressing his palm. It was a frantic entreaty, each coming together, pleading with gasps at the overload, the sensory cacophony crashing through reality, until Laran froze, spine arched, shoulders thrown back, heat pouring over Zevran’s fingers as he milked the thick organ. 

Fearing overstimulating Laran, Zevran began to withdraw even though he was close again, but the prince hung on, pushing back on his manhood, urging him onwards. It didn’t take long, orgasm ripping through him, more thick release coating the tight channel in strong spurts, a weak and satisfied moan issuing from his throat. One handed he reached down, touching the carpet, croaking to go back to the palace, and they stayed like that for much of the return journey, having to support each other, the only warmth being where their bodies touched, until he could finally slide out gently. He helped with readjusting Laran’s loose pants, then turned his attention to his own rumpled state, before hands stopped his own shaking ones, the assistance given with another kiss. 

Resting his forehead on Laran’s collarbone, he watched dazedly as the prince’s hands moved over him surely. That. That was why he couldn’t get Laran out of his head. He could let his guard drop for a moment and not have to worry about it being taken advantage of, but actually receiving a bit of positive return. That safety was exactly why he craved more of this man. Leery of looking up, of catching those blue eyes looking at him differently, Zevran glanced up when a faintly prickled chin brushed his temple. Caught, captured, imprisoned – all things bound up in the expression there, surprise and shock because they were both held there, as though not expecting the other to match the same emotion. Whatever that emotion was, the part of Zevran’s mind that was raised on constant watchful living where the difference between life and death was barely more than a thread ready to snap at any moment, where disappointment was all that reigned – that side of his mind screamed “Trap!” and “Run!” and ranted in its terror. Weakness at the top or bottom of the ladder of life was the norm, the only thing separating a slave from a prince was that which was disposable. He had taken Loghain and Howe’s deal, somehow coming out ahead, and like an idiot went racing back, trying to find the person who had done something as simple as treating him with dignity, trust, friendship and a modicum of care, the first to do so in a very, very long time. 

Able to only find the middle ground, unwilling to flee, unwilling to let even more of his vulnerability to show, Zevran glanced away by dint of will alone. “As you can see, my Pr...Laran, the carpet is quite secure. Any time you wish to see the sights, please feel free to call upon me, as I am at your service for as long as you wish me to be.”

Zevran didn’t know what he expected but calloused fingers sliding over his face, tucking his hair back from his ears and a saffron and cardamom spiced mouth on his wasn’t it. 

....

Increasing light brought Zevran to wakefulness. The bed was soft, too soft, too big, and he was tangled in more layers than he could count when so groggy. Rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm trying to jog himself completely awake, he startled. For that much sunlight to be working its way through the many curtains on the balcony, it had to be well past dawn. At any moment someone would come in to wake Laran and find that the prince wasn’t alone and that his companion wasn’t just a harem girl or boy, but a visiting “noble” and an elven one at that. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Laran sprawled still asleep, half the covers from the night barely obscuring the line of bare thigh and hip. As tempting as it was to roll back over in the curiously cold bed to press close to the _shemlen_ and his warmth, Zevran made a face. He didn’t want to cause the prince issues, or if not Laran, then himself issues. 

Quietly he began to ease himself from beneath the blankets, most of which he had apparently stolen in the night or in the early morning depending on your point of view. Laran’s arm came out, curling around his side. Sitting with his legs just over the edge of the bed, Zevran stilled, waiting. But the prince was apparently awake enough to realize he was taking his leave, or attempting to.

“So, just like that and you’re gone?” 

Zevran covered the pale hand with one of his own much darker ones. “Surely someone will come and take exception to my presence in your bed, Laran.” Running a thumb over the dips between the large knuckles, “I mean only to avoid causing problems.”

Behind him, Laran sat up, a shin pressed to the back of his hips, a chin on his shoulder, “Oh. No. No, no one will care. They leave me alone mostly.”

Confused, “Whatever for? Are there not duties to...attend to?”

“Hmmn, nope,” he felt Laran’s shrug, a sleepy yawn muffled into the side of his neck. “Like I said, mostly left alone. I’m the spare, the backup. Nothing more. And so I can do pretty much whatever I want...so long as I’m always nearby and there’s no chance of me fomenting rebellion or something stupid like that. They like to keep me slightly stupid, educated but not interested in politics or anything.” The _shemlen’s_ other arm wrapped around him, tone wistful, “I wish I was free...out there. In the world.”

Leaning back in the embrace, Zevran relaxed. “Freedom is all about perception, _amante._ The slave wishes they were free, able to do walk the streets with their head held high, not to have to battle for everything while knowing that any moment it could be taken away no matter what they do, as not even their life is their own. The prince looks out on the world below, outside the high walls of a luxurious prison and wishes that his fate were his own. It seems that there is very little difference between the two, other than who is comfortable and has a full belly.”

Laran was quiet, fingers brushing over lash born scars on his back, almost all universally from those customers who thought beating an elf was preferable to most activities in a bedroom. “You have many of these on your back, but none on your front.”

“Life is harsh, _guapo._ It is something that I long ago became used to,” shrugging. “People can never surprise you if you do not expect or hope for anything good of them. Cruelty is life, be one a noble, a slave or freeborn.”

“Oh,” notes of uncertainty rang out, subtly putting distance between them. 

Flicking a glance at him, “The only thing to be done is meet such things with a smile and never let them see you weak. Never give them the satisfaction of knowing just how much what they do hurts, even if it kills you. Because the only thing that one can control is one’s own mind and outlook. Enjoy the good while it lasts and cope with the bitter. In the end, the worst that will happen is that death comes, and in that, everyone is equal. _Shemlen_ , elf, royal, noble, merchant, soldier, slave. We all fall before that scythe. Innocent or guilty. Powerful or powerless.”

“Are your thoughts always so dark?” black brows pinched together. “Is there no joy in your life?”

The retort that nearly came out was “And yours are not?”. Instead he reached for a smile, turning to smooth the furrowed brow with a touch, “Of course there is, _amante._ Friends bring joy. A beautiful dawn or moonrise. The pleasure of a strong embrace and a good night’s rest. Knowing that there is someone at your back whom you can trust not to take advantage and who trusts you also. Satisfaction in a task completed, one done well - this too brings joy, yes?”

“You’re trying to comfort me,” the full mouth deepened into a frown. “To keep me like they do,” gesturing at the palace and the lackeys, tutors and instructors who prevented the prince from doing anything meaningful. 

“No, I am trying to...” Zevran shook his head, searching for an explanation that might satisfy and not chase Laran away. “I am seeking to ease a friend’s mind when he is troubled over me unnecessarily. Is that not what friends do?”

“And how can I ease your mind and turn it away from such...melancholy?” blue eyes skipped over his features intently.

Blinking in surprise, “I...I truthfully...I do not know. My thoughts...Isabela and the carpet are usually the only ones subjected to them other than myself....”

“Oh,” mouth pursing thoughtfully, tugging him back into his arms and flopping back. “I usually only have Phobos to share with.” Laran nodded once, decisively, before squeezing him tightly, “Well, not anymore. You can share yours and I’ll share mine, and we’ll just...figure it out together then.”

Surprised once again, Zevran propped himself up on his elbows, examining the _shemlen’s_ face intently. “As much as I would like that, would you...also like that? As the saying goes, it takes two to tango, no?”

His back was stroked while Laran’s other hand went to his hair, pushing the blond locks away from his face and ear, “Don’t know the saying, but yes, I would like that very much.”


End file.
